


trust & control

by dansunedisco



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BDSM, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Happy Ending, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Light Angst, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-13 04:03:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7961710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa first sees him at the Tyrell fundraising gala. In a sea of drunk, happy people, he is the singular solemn one, standing as still as a statue against the far wall with a glass of untouched champagne in hand. </p><p>-</p><p>Or: the 50 Shades AU no one asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this edit!](http://melodymaysecret.tumblr.com/post/148507339362/fifty-shades-of-grey-au-requested-by-anonymous)
> 
> i am trash and i hope you dig this *thumbs up*

Sansa first sees him at the Tyrell fundraising gala. In a sea of drunk, happy people, he is the singular solemn one, standing as still as a statue against the far wall with a glass of untouched champagne in hand. He’s handsome, too; dark, curly hair, intense eyes, and he cuts a fine figure in a well-tailored tux. She knows she’s not the only man or woman here that’s noticed him, but he hasn’t indulged. He’s rebuffed every advance that’s come his way. What surprises her the most, however, is when the room hushes to announce tonight’s grand benefactor, he’s the one who steps onto the podium to polite clapping.

“Who is he?” she asks.

Margaery Tyrell always knows who everyone is, and she doesn’t disappoint now. She gives Sansa a knowing smirk over her bare shoulder. “Jon _Targaryen_ ,” she murmurs, “currently one of the richest men in the seven kingdoms, and the subject of a salacious scandal several years back. Don’t you remember it?”

“Vaguely,” Sansa lies, because now that Margaery’s said it, she remembers everything. It made the papers--legitimate ones; not just the gossip rags--when Daenerys Targaryen (the richest person in the seven kingdoms, _period_ ) announced her successor: Jon Snow, unknown, and, apparently, the illegitimate son of her long-dead brother, Rhaegar. Word around him has been quiet since.

“Mmhm,” Marg nudges her playfully, “are you interested, then? I could introduce you.”

Jon’s still speaking at the lectern. His voice is clear, if low, but Sansa hasn’t heard a single thing he’s said. She’s always been curious about people, if only out of sheer interest--as opposed to Marg’s internal rolodex of potential exploitation--but this time, some instinct tells her to steer clear. Even from half a room away, he feels dangerous. “Maybe some other time,” she says, but she can’t take her eyes off him.

Jon finishes his speech, and whatever spell Sansa’s fallen into breaks when the room erupts into vigorous clapping. She takes a sip of her drink, and avoids Marg’s amused stare.

 

-

 

The rest of the night follows its typical pattern: more speeches, more champagne, and rubbing elbows between trays of hors d'oeuvres. Sansa hates these functions, but Margaery insists it’s the only way to network. _If I wanted a husband_. She doesn’t, and once more she excuses herself from another circle of vultures. Escape is futile, of course. The only way to be free of them is to leave entirely, and she came with Marg.

She’s making her way to the lobby for respite when she collides with someone coming from another hallway. She teeters precariously on her heels for a moment, and then strong, warm hands steady her. “Thank you,” she says--or tries to say, at least. She’s knocked right into Jon Targaryen, and she nearly chokes on her tongue at the realization. He’s better looking up close, and a lot younger than she expected.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

Only after she nods does he drop his hold on her. She resists the urge to rub her arms. “Sorry… I wasn’t really looking.”

“Neither was I,” he admits. He looks at her for a moment, then, “You’re leaving?”

“I came with a friend, so… no. Sadly.”

His lips twitch up, though it’s not quite a smile. “If you’d like, I could give you a lift.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes Sansa melt. She can tell he’s being polite, but utterly sincere. The usual implication of _more for a favor_ is surprisingly absent, too. _Why not?_ she thinks. She’s tired, her feet hurt, and leaving with a strange man--Jon Targaryen, no less--would have Margaery screaming in delight. Even if it’s only to take her home, and nothing else.

“I’m not far,” she says, “I promise.”

He offers her his arm. She takes it.

 

-

 

Jon drives her home.

They talk a little on the way, but Sansa quickly gets the sense that Jon prefers his silence. That, or he realizes that some woman at a black-tie fundraiser might use this moment to snap up as much information as possible. She’s not offended if that’s the case. The quiet between them is comfortable. Everyone she knows chatters meaninglessly or in double-speak and innuendos, and the change is nice. She watches the lights of the big city fade in the sideview mirror and taps her fingers to the tune of a song on the radio.

They pull up to her apartment soon enough, and Jon walks her to the building door. “Let me, please,” he said, when she told him he didn’t have to.

Her neighborhood is an off-campus development. There are other students milling about the quad, talking and smoking, and the contrast between their casual wear and her and Jon’s clothing nearly makes her laugh. She’s been accused of being fake so many times now; surely this and Jon’s flashy car at the curb will be another nail in that coffin. With anyone else she might have been embarrassed, but Jon’s not another Joffrey Baratheon, and she isn’t. She used to care what people thought of her. She doesn’t anymore.

They reach her building. He gave her his jacket to wear when she said she didn’t check a coat, and her skin tightens against the chill when he slips it off her shoulders. She turns around, squints at him. “Has anyone told you you’re alarmingly chivalrous?”

He’s close to her, close enough that she can feel the heat leeching off his body and into the night’s air. “Not something I’m accused of often,” he says, and there’s a heaviness to his words that has her shivering from something other than cold. His grey eyes search hers for a moment. “How old are you, Sansa?”

It takes her a second to register the question. It’s the first one he’s asked her directly about herself, and not one she’s expecting. “My name day is in a few months… I’ll be nineteen.”

He smiles then, a small one that only makes him all the more handsome, and dangerous. Before, she didn’t see any Targaryen in him, but now there is a new intensity in his eyes, and she knows she’s getting close to an all-consuming flame. That instinct from before tells her to go: to thank him for the ride home, and walk into her building. To not look back. “Why?” she asks instead.

 

-

 

“You’re being so good for me,” Jon whispers. Sansa’s straddling his legs, her knees sticking to the leather of his couch, and her hands are tied behind her back with one of his many silk ties. She’s spread open to him, the rasp of his zipper scratching at the backs of her thighs, and she’s long since stopped caring about the fact that she’s completely naked and he’s fully clothed. He’s dipping his fingers inside of her, thumb working her clit as he’s rubbing at some spot in her that has her dripping wet; he hasn’t stopped whispering filthy endearments to her.

It’s been less than a day since she met Jon Targaryen and she’s sucked his dick three times--on her knees in his office, lying on her back in his bed, and right before he tied her up and dragged her onto his lap. She’s burning from the anticipation of an orgasm she hasn’t yet had. He withdraws his fingers from her center, and she sobs on a moan. She is so, so close. The denial was promised and agreed upon, but it makes it no less excruciating to endure.

“Do you want to come, Sansa?” he asks. He places steadying hand on her hip, and Sansa hisses out a breath, “Yes, yes _please_.”

“Please…”

“Please, _sir_ ,” she says, desperate and shaky for it. It’s the right thing to say, she knows it is--she’s always been a quick learner--and he slips his fingers back inside of her with a groan of his own. She comes harder than she ever has before a minute later, clenching down and trembling to the feel of sharp teeth scraping against the swell of her breast. The relief is pure, and sweet.

 

-

 

“You can say no to any of it--or all of it,” Jon promises.

They’re already a month into their arrangement, and they haven’t done much more than the basics, from what Sansa can presume, and so far it’s good. Really good.

Their routine is simple. She goes to school during the weekdays. Some nights he sends a car to pick her up. They don’t just fuck, either. He’s busier than she ever wants to be, and sometimes it’s clear that he’s too tired to do anything more than breathe around another human being. Sometimes they talk, or watch movies, and sometimes Jon cooks for her in a kitchen that’s larger than her entire apartment. It’s like they’re dating--except Sansa gets a weekly deposit in her bank account that is far too generous for all the orgasms she’s getting out of this, and she was asked to sign an NDA the very first day.

“This is all new to me,” she admits. The kinkiest thing she’s ever done was buy a vibrator on a stupid dare. It’s been collecting dust in her panty drawer ever since. Everything else has been with Jon. “But I like what you to do me.” She likes it a lot.

His eyes flash with want, and he pulls her into a kiss that promises much, much more. He steps back. “I want to show you something.”

He brings her to a room she’s never been in. It’s separate from his master bedroom, and it contains a bed with four thick posts, a thick rug at its feet. The walk-in is filled with toys; belts and whips and more, all organized by type. She’s mesmerized. It’s another glimpse into the mystery that is Jon, the world he’s slowly drawn her into, and she runs her fingers over tight leather before she even thinks to ask permission.

“It’s okay,” he says, when he sees her jerk her hand back. “You can look through whatever you like. Touch whatever you like.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Anything at all?” she teases. It’s a weekend, and the most they’ve done today is kiss a little. Still, curiosity wins over desire. She unhooks the most dangerous looking object from the wall. It’s a cane, and surprisingly heavy in her hands. She swallows. Would he use this on her if she asked? “How long have you been doing this?”

“Since college,” he says, “though it was mostly just rough sex and hair pulling at first.”

She puts the cane back. “Can I ask why you like it?”

“It clears my head more than anything else,” he says, stepping closer to her. "I have a lot of power in my line of work, but it’s… chaotic. What I like is control. To have control. But it’s more than that, too.”

“I think I get it,” she says, because she’s seen the way his eyes glaze over when she’s writhing in his arms. She’s not terribly experienced in bed, but what she has done was nothing to write home about. Self-consciousness held her back, not wanting to moan too loudly or say the wrong thing. With Jon, she’s learning to let go and trust him to make her feel good--and maybe it’s the same for him, too. Trust and control, hand in hand. She considers him for a moment. “Do you like to hurt people?”

“Sometimes.” He smiles; it's soft, a little sad. “If they like it.”

She touches the cane again. Her heart is thumping heavily in her chest, and she’s wet at the thought of it thudding against her skin. What would it feel like? Could she take it? Would she like it? If someone would’ve told her a month back she’d be turned on at the thought of pain, she would’ve laughed right in their face. She turns to look at him. She licks her lips. “Do you want to hurt _me?_ ”

 

-

 

Jon does.

They start out slow, his hand cracking against her ass sharply as he fingers her from behind. She cries out each time a hit lands, but she doesn't safe word out. She doesn't need to, or want to. The burn is unlike anything she's ever experienced, and the way it feels when Jon finally draws her hips back and guides his cock into her sends her flying. She feels both loose and tight, and her arms soon drop out from under her. Holding her weight up feels impossible.

“Sansa,” he chokes out, and she feels his hand press down on the small of her back, “you’re so, so beautiful… so beautiful like this--”

“Oh god, oh god,” she chants, cheek pressed flat against the mattress, and when Jon twists a fist into her hair and tugs, she comes without any direction stimulation to her clit. It’s a first, and she dips into a fuzzy headspace she didn’t know was possible without drugs or alcohol. She feels ready to shake right out of her body.

Afterwards, Jon rubs soothing cream onto her smarting skin and brings her a bottle of water she drinks down in several long pulls. It’s strange, she thinks, that a man who can take so much pleasure from spanking her takes just the same amount in taking _care_ of her--but then, maybe it isn’t so strange after all.

He's still wearing all his clothes when he tucks his knees up behind hers, and she leans into his embrace with a satisfied sigh. “That was intense,” she says, tilting her head as Jon peppers the join of her head and neck with kisses. He pauses, and she clarifies, “Good intense. Very, very good.”

He hums against her skin. “You liked it then.”

Sansa’s toes curl at the sound of his voice, the way his breath ghosts across her skin. She twists around to face him, nose to nose. There’s so much about him she doesn’t yet know. She doesn’t think she’s ever met a more guarded person in her entire life. But one thing she does know is that he cares about her, wants her to be happy, even if she doesn’t really understand why. “I promised to tell you if I don’t,” she says, a callback to the discussion he made them have before all this.

He pulls her into another kiss.

The next morning, he makes her breakfast and rubs more lotion onto her ass. She's tender, but the press of his fingers spikes a heat between her legs she's pretty sure wouldn't be there if not for the memory of last night.

“Next time you won't come without my permission,” he says, kissing her hip with a gentleness that’s at odds with what he’s promising, “I'll show you how to wait… It'll be so much better when you do. I swear it.”

She believes every word.

 

-

 

She quits her shitty hostess job at the restaurant with the creepy manager, and sets aside a considerable portion of the payments to help chip away at Bran’s medical expenses. She agonizes for days over what to say if someone asks her how she came into the money--but it’s a problem that resolves itself. No one asks. No one _ever_ asks, and what little guilt she feels for having sex for money dies when her mother burst into tears after the hospital tells her someone’s paid everything they owed, and then some.

“This is great news,” Robb says, voice thick with feeling. It’s family dinner night and the mood is joyous. He hugs Arya and Rickon and Sansa to his chest. “It’s a fucking miracle.”

Sansa starts to do better in class, too, thanks in part her sudden free time and the lifted stress. Money might not buy happiness, but it does buy security and that’s damn near close. Even if she stopped seeing Jon right this second, she would be fine for months. Maybe even half a year, if she budgeted.

After the second month, she considers telling Margaery; if only to tell _somebody_. For all her flaws, Marg is a loyal friend and can keep a secret better than a bear trap, but Sansa has an ironclad contract to contend with. That, and the fact that she could ruin Jon’s career and her own life if word got out that not only was he paying a college girl for sex, but he was choking her while he was at it, too.

“It’s just… she’s not stupid,” Sansa says. She has an open textbook in her lap, and her toes are tucked firmly under Jon’s thighs. In the months they’ve been doing this, she’s learned to air her thoughts, regardless of their nature. “I’m days away from hearing her call out ‘off to see your sugar daddy, San?’ the next time Pyp comes to fetch me, I’m sure of it.”

Jon just gives her an amused look over his wire-framed glasses. “Sugar daddy?”

“Her words, in this hypothetical situation.” She wiggles her toes. “Don’t feel bad. You’re hardly old enough to be in that category.”

“Thank you. I was beginning to worry.” He grabs her ankle and thumbs softly over the bone. He’s gone serious. “You can tell her, if you want.”

“Everything?”

“I trust you,” he says. The admission hits like a blow. “If you know she won’t run to the press, then… yes. Everything.”

Her pulse is jumping in her throat. Her mouth is dry. “Okay,” she says thickly, “okay, thank you.”

 

-

 

Sansa learns a lot of things. One of them is that Jon is not at all what she expected.

He’s quiet, yes, but he’s quicker with a comeback, and he cares more than he ever lets on. She thought he was a tortured soul when she first met him, a somber man in a tux that cost more than her rent, but he’s not. Not really.

She begins to understand him in small ways, things he doesn’t say. There are no pictures of family on his mantle, just his friends from college; most of them include Sam Tarly, Jon’s best friend and second-in-command. It’s a stark reminder that he grew up without knowing his parents, and that when the truth was revealed, all the world learned of it, too. The fact that he is still in the city, working and trying his best to carry the legacy of a family that never once claimed him until it was convenient, makes Sansa think he’s the bravest, strongest person she knows.

Sometimes she thinks he would fit in so well with her family--Robb and Arya especially--but she’s never sure how to broach the subject. _I know you pay good money to spank me, but how about going for a drink with my big brother? I think you two would get along swimmingly._

“What are you smiling about?” Jon asks.

There’s no way in hell she’s telling him the truth, so she crawls into his lap instead. “Depraved thoughts. Want to hear them?”

 

-

 

A last minute business meeting calls Jon away across the narrow sea days before their next long weekend together. It’s not the first time Jon’s had to cancel plans--not even the fourth or tenth time, in fact--but it’s the first time Sansa’s disappointed by it. She’s going to miss him. A lot.

The realization doesn’t come with a shock. Just a slow, creeping feeling that swims in her gut as she hugs Jon goodbye and he cradles the back of her head, holding one another like she’s seeing him off to war.

“Stay in the penthouse the entire time if you like,” he says.

She has a spare key, but she’s never stayed over when he wasn’t there. It would be a step towards something, she thinks, if they were dating. But they’re not. What they have is an arrangement. Nothing less, nothing more.

She should’ve reminded herself of that a long, long time ago.

 

-

 

He’s gone for two weeks.

In that time, he sends her several text messages. None of them are of the sext variety. She stares at her phone, trying to decipher the smalltalk, the beautiful pictures of Meereen he sends her, and dutifully shoves down the swell of happiness each time they come. She’s being an idiot, analyzing everything he says like a lovesick fool, but it’s hard not to when he writes things like _I wish you were here_ or _Can’t wait to get back to you._

She wonders, sometimes, if he knows what he’s doing to her.

 _Hurry back_ , she types back for lack of a better response, and then sends him a selfie of her wrapped up in his sheets. It’s not a cute picture. She’s not wearing makeup, her hair is bunched up in a messy bun, and she spent all day on his ridiculously expensive couch in one of his sweaters. She sends it anyway.

She can almost hear Marg’s voice in her head, admonishing her for developing feelings when boundaries were so clearly set, and she sighs into the pillow that smells like Jon’s aftershave. Her heart thumps. Lovesick is right. _Stupid girl._ “I know,” she murmurs, “I know, I know.”

 

-

 

“I missed you,” Jon says. His voice is low and growly, and he’s holding her up against the pillar wall in his kitchen with just his bodyweight. Sansa can feel him hard and thick against her, and all she can do is whimper in response. Hearing him say those words cracks something inside of her, and she’s afraid if she opens her mouth to speak, she’ll say way too much.

She’s deep into her feelings these days. Perhaps it was a form of distance making the heart grow fonder because she is, now; so, so fond of him. She knows she needs to break off their arrangement before she gets hurt, but she’s weak with him so near, and she winds her fingers into his hair and pulls him into a desperate kiss.

He takes her to the bedroom, oblivious to her internal strife, and eats her out until she’s nearly hoarse from begging. No matter what she says or promises, he doesn’t give her permission to come--he only rubs his lips along the crease of her thigh and hip, and teases her with his fingers.

It’s one of his favorite things to do to her. Normally she is all about it--she’s all about everything they do together--but tonight, her mind keeps skipping back to those stupid text messages and how his face lit up when she picked him up at the airport. It’s too much. Emotionally, physically. She can’t go on.

“Jon,” she breathes, because it’s now or never, “stop.”

He draws back immediately, all concern. “What’s wrong? What do you need?”

 _You._ She swallows the words back. “I… I don’t think I can do this anymore.” She sits up and drags the covers up to her chin. There’s a mild chill in the room, and the look on his face is shuttered, impassive ice. She looks away. “I’m sorry.”

He nods. “Nothing to be sorry for,” he says, “I overstepped.”

“If anyone overstepped, it was me.” The last thing she wants is for him to feel _bad_ , as if he did something wrong or she didn’t like it.

His eyebrows furrow. “You.”

“Yes,” she says, quickly falling into exasperation. “I might’ve--okay, no, I need to put clothes on for this confession.”

But Jon grabs her around the middle when she tries to get up. He has a stupid smile on his face now and she swats at his arm, but he only laughs at her; it might be the first one she’s heard him make, and it’s not _fair._ She’s trying to share her feelings with him and he’s looking at her like this is the best news he’s ever heard. It hurts. “I’m trying to be serious. This isn’t funny,” she snaps.

All he does is press a kiss to her temple, keeping her tight in his arms. “It will be in a minute,” he says. “I promise.”


	2. 'Verse Ficlet #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First ficlet from the 'verse.

“Are you sure?" 

Sansa fiddles with the handcuff. It’s leather, soft and pliable, with a plush inner lining that looks alarmingly like crushed purple velvet. She unbuckles the clip and slips the cuff onto her wrist; looks up at Jon. He’s giving her a burning look now, leaned up against the door jamb with his arms crossed. It’s his usual stance… when he’s affected and doesn’t want to _freak her out_ , as if he’s ever pushed her limits beyond what they’ve agreed to do. As if he ever would. She trusts him, explicitly, and she’s sure. Even so, she can’t let him off without a little teasing. “I don’t know,” she says. She holds her arm out. “I’m already tied up… and you’re just standing there.”

Jon’s fingers flex. “You’re still new to this...” 

“It’s been two months,” she cuts him off. “ _Two months_ of you spanking me, and pulling my hair--”

He’s to her in four long strides, and she practically launches herself from the bed to meet him halfway in a messy, heated kiss. There is power in tipping him so off balance and she relishes in it, nipping at his bottom lip and matching his groan when he pulls her hips hard to meet his own. “Ah,” she hisses, and it’s only natural for her to tip her head back when he moves to kiss her neck. It hasn’t even been a minute with his hands on her and she’s already wet and throbbing for him. She doesn’t think she’ll ever get over how he makes her feel; how easily she _lets_ him. 

He ties her up -- properly. Each wrist buckled into a cuff, then strapped to a bar in the headboard. He gives her a tender kiss before he steps back, knee perched on the edge of the mattress. “Color?”

She pulls on the restraints, suddenly realizing that this is truly a loss of control they haven’t played around with yet. For all her bravado -- it _was_ her idea to use the cuffs, after all -- her stomach swoops. Her arms are above her head and her middle is exposed. Even if she used all her strength, she is not escaping: the leather won’t yield, and the headboard won’t break. There is something instinctively _off_ about the feeling, but all it takes is Jon’s hand to encircle her ankle for her to become grounded again. She wants this. She wants him. She meets his gaze, steady and certain. “Green.”


End file.
